


Daffodil Bouquet

by Munchy



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Cheating, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hanahaki Disease, Hopefully endgame is a big poly ranch fix it AU, Hurt/Comfort, I say hopefully because even I'm not sure how I'll get there, John's year absence, Kinda, Look there's... A LOT going on here, Lots of Arguing, M/M, Mostly in Arthur's POV, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Pre-Poly, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, Victorian Era Culture and Attitudes towards Death, and plenty of it, but also getting back together?????, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-02-08 16:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munchy/pseuds/Munchy
Summary: "There’s a pile of daffodils on and around Abigail’s lap. Along with a lot of blood dripping down from her mouth.That’s how Arthur finds her."----The day John runs off, Abigail nearly dies. She's saved from a painful fate, but it isn't long until she's once again coughing up yellow petals. Arthur steps in, because he can't stand to see this happenagain.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to start writing this the moment I realized that I could flex my knowledge of Victorian Era mourning practices, and incorporate that into a Hanahaki disease AU. I just wanted to throw this prologue here just to tease ya'll. Though, I'm slowly writing the other parts as they come to me. Not sure how far I'll go with the story, because I never played the second game, so I'm not familiar with the story events, but I'll get there when I get there.
> 
> Either way, I change A LOT of rules for how Hanahaki works, so buckle up kidos! You're in for a ride!
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested in beta reading for me, hmu on Twitter @m-u-n-c-h-y

There’s a pile of daffodils on and around Abigail’s lap. Along with a lot of blood dripping down from her mouth.

 

That’s how Arthur finds her.

 

He hears himself make a broken sound, something that rattles like glass windows in a thunderstorm. She looks at him, eyes glossed over and unfocused. Tears follow a path down to mix with caked up blood around her chin. It’s so bright and saturated, compared to her pale, clammy face.

 

Arthur can hear the sound of little Jack wailing his lungs out. It was the reason he came into the tent in the first place. To check up on her. To see if they were okay.

 

There's a whole daffodil sitting in the palm of her hand. Specks of fluid dot the petals.

 

"Arthur…?" she groans, voice grainy and wheezing.

 

Another cough wracks through her body and Arthur snaps out of the horror stricken fog long enough to grab her. He wraps one arm around her shoulder while the other goes under her knees. He lifts her as gently as he can, but Arthur's not smooth enough in his haste to not jostle her straining lungs.

 

Yellow, bloodstained petals fall around them in clumps. Jack's still crying, his little body wiggling in his blankets.

 

Abigail's head snaps to the side, eyes the bassinet -a gift from the girls- with an unfocused look. She gurgles out a name, spitting more blood out and staining Arthur’s shirt. There's a faint hint of spring mixed with the copper stench that permeates the tent like a thick cloud. It makes him nauseous. 

 

Arthur panics. He rushed out of the tent, Abigail in his arms coughing, bleeding, _dying._

 

" _Hosea!_ " He screams, hollers into the night like the devil himself possessed him, " _Dutch_ ” He finds himself stuttering on more names because, _God_ , what does he _do?_

 

Abigail wheezes, breath tight like a hand was wrapped around her throat. There are bright yellow petals everywhere. Clear as day, despite the blanket of darkness surrounding them.

 

There are voices now, shouts from all directions. Jack's still screaming, but he's closer now. Someone must have gotten him. Arthur’s still shouting though, crying out for help. There are hands grabbing him, grabbing Abigail, but he can't let go. Convinced that if he does, she'll slip into the darkness around them, be swallowed by it, with only yellow petals remaining.

 

The weight of her is suddenly gone and a broken shout leaves his throat. Crying out above all the noise, _“No! She’s gonna die!”_ He’s held back and he starts to struggle. Suddenly, there's a warm, familiar hand on the back of his neck, grounding him, guiding him, back to his tent.  

 

"It'll be alright, Arthur. Abigail will be just fine, okay?" Arthur, through the fog in his mind, is barely able to recognize Dutch's voice, but despite the comforting words, for once he just can't believe him.

 

Something is pushed into his hands and he feels a warmth spread through his mouth. He's being made to drink something, he realizes in his hysterical state.

 

He wants to protest, wail like little Jack, but he feels the pull of sleep suddenly take hold. He's swept into the darkness, but the nightmares still come. In them, he’s surrounded by daffodils.


	2. Chapter 1: Pennyroyal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur enters, quickly closing and tying up the tent flaps tightly so as not to let the smoke escape. It burns his eyes as he tries to see the two figures through the fog. Hosea is seated by the cot that was quickly laid out. His wrinkled hand gently rubs the knuckles of the bed’s occupant. 
> 
> Abigail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be world building for the first couple of chapters so like... don't expect much in the way of plot lmao
> 
> Also while doing research for another fic (and when I say research, I mean quickly skimming thru wikipedia) I've learned a lot about abortion history and it's practices before modern times, including but not limited to the use of pennyroyal as an abortifacients. I decided that the idea that Hanahaki could be cured by surgically removing the flowers would not only be an EXTREMELY risky surgery at the time, but also pretty fucking expensive (you are digging thru someone's chest there). So, I devised another way to get rid of the flowers temporarily by burning pennyroyal (an plant used for abortions) and turning the flowers in the lungs to ashes... and having the person cough up ash instead... hey I didn't say it was fool proof. And it is the 1800's after all.
> 
> No beta here, only grammerly!

The camp is a buzzing with members, running back and forth, getting chores done left and right. It took a while to set up camp this time around. They had to move further west a lot sooner than they planned.

Yet despite the constant movement, it’s strangely quiet as well.

The normal shouting Arthur expects from Susan directing her girls and getting the boys to pitch in, are missing. The drunken shenanigans of Bill and Davey as they plan a doomed hunting trip is quiet and somber. Javier’s guitar playing, usually a fast melody that keeps pace with people rushing around setting up tents, is also gone. There’s not even the sound of a string being plucked.

There is a ghost hanging around them, Arthur can feel it in his bones. An absence so strong that it’s infected the entire gang. Like they’re mourning.

There are only a few tents set up currently. One of them is closed tight despite the beautiful morning that’s almost too perfect. It is a dark shadow in the camp.

Arthur, against his better judgment, makes his way towards it and announces his arrival.

“Come in,” he can hear Hosea’s tired voice greet. The smell of peppermint is strong even outside the tent.

Arthur enters, quickly closing and tying up the tent flaps tightly so as not to let the smoke escape. It burns his eyes as he tries to see the two figures through the fog. Hosea is seated by the cot that was quickly laid out. His wrinkled hand gently rubs the knuckles of the bed’s occupant.

Abigail.

It’s only been four days since he found her that night. Abigail has yet to wake up.

Her face is calm, peaceful despite all the chaos that has recently happened. The smoke that fills the tent wafts around her, making the whole place all the more ethereal. Like she isn’t real. A dream.

Hosea looks at him with a calm smile, “Hey there.” his hand never leaves Abigail’s.

“Hosea,” he greets stiffly, the burning pennyroyal drifting around the tent is a stark contrast to the morning breeze outside. It’s almost suffocating, but it’s necessary, “How’s Abigail?” he would call her Mrs. Marston, but he can’t say the name. It’s too soon.

Hosea hums as he goes back to his book, and Arthur isn’t sure how the man doesn’t feel stuffy in a place like this, “Better. Has been coughing up ash here and there, but she seems calm for now.”

“You think you’ll need more—”

“No, I think we’ve got enough to last us a while. Not like it’s hard to find.” Hosea says, cutting Arthur off, “But tell me how you're doin’.”

Arthur hesitates before taking the only other seat in the tent, which is directly at the foot of the cot, across from Hosea. He fidgets with his hands, not knowing what to do with them, looking anywhere but Abigail’s peaceful face.

Hosea remains patient.

Eventually, he says, “Guess I'm just… tired,” a pause, “Movin’ the way we did and gettin’ this all set up before anything else…”

He hears Hosea hum again before the older man looks up at him, “That reminds me, make sure to give Bill a smack upside the head for me, wouldya?”

Arthur chuckle, “I’ll give that idiot more than a smack.” Bill had made enemies with the local ranchers when he was caught trying to steal some cattle to pawn off to another, rival rancher. Some blood feud that Bill thought he could use to scam the lot which turned into a disaster. With torches and guns being pointed at the camp when Bill lead the mob right to them, they all had to make a quick escape. It was… bad.

It's a shame too, Arthur quite liked that spot they had hunkered down into. Certainly would have made finding and dragging Marston back easier.

Arthur frowns.

That coward.

That stupid, selfish _bastard_. If Arthur ever saw John's face again, he'd kill him. Whatever bullshit Dutch would spew about loyalty and brotherhood be _damned_.

There’s a shuffle outside, and then a kind voice, “Mr. Matthews?”

It’s Tilly.

Hosea calls out to her and she opens the tent flaps, “Sorry to interrupt, but I think I found a solution to our problem.” Tilly looks at Arthur for a moment, finally noticing him through the fog of smoke. She smiles and gives him a nod in greeting. She’s a good kid.

“You find some baby bottles?” Hosea asks.

“Better. There’s a girl from a local farm. She had a child but it unfortunately passed. She’s willin’ to nurse Jack until Abigail gets better, though.” Tilly informs, “I already told Dutch and Miss Grimshaw about her. Figured you’d like to talk to her too.”

Hosea nods and starts to stand, “Good job, Miss Jackson. You’ve been a gracious help.”

“It’s the least I can do,” she says, opening the flap, letting Hosea out. She looks at Abigail before giving a quiet sigh and taking her leave.

Arthur hears Hosea call out, “Watch over Miss Roberts while I’m gone, Arthur.” He didn’t plan on leaving anyway, he supposes.

He takes Hosea’s seat and watches Abigail’s chest rise and fall under the blankets. Can't stop thinking of the way it stuttered when he found her. It was all too damn familiar, like a terrible sense of _déjà vu_.

Like he can feel a hand laying on his shoulder, trying to comfort him, but the sight and smell of death permeates the air and he can't breathe. His mother looks peaceful but even at his age, Arthur knows better. He can hear his father reaching for the bottle on the kitchen table, leaving him clutching the dried milkweeds in his tiny hands.

He hears a sudden intake of breath, "A-Arthur?" Abigail's voice sounds… fragile. Broken.

He looks up and meets glassy eyes, "Hey," he watches her shuffle around a bit, glancing around her new space, “How you holdin’ up?”

“Fine, I guess…” she squints her eyes at the entrance to the tent, “Where's Jack?”

"He's having the time of his life with _Grandpa_ Dutch," Arthur chuckles. He knew Dutch could be fatherly, but he's grown quite taken with the role of being the proud granddad, coddling little Jack and showing him off to anyone that would sit and listen. "Swear that man will steal your boy from ya if you ain't careful."

Abigail smiles, "I'll keep that in mind," she visibly relaxes back into her pillow, taking slow, steady breaths. However, it wasn't long before she was glancing around again, "Where are we?"

Arthur sits back in his chair, thinking for a moment, “About a two days ride from where were last,” Arthur sees her scrunch up her brows, “We had to move. Bill made a fuss.”

Abigail looks at him then, something sad in her eyes that’s too tired to be panic, but far too desperate to be just plain concern, “But John—”

Arthur can feel his mouth frown, a stormy expression taking hold of him before he can stop it, “ _Don’t_ Abigail,” he warns, “That man nearly killed you. Just don’t.”

She may be sick, but the glare she sends his way could start wildfires, “ _Excuse me?_ You ain’t my keeper—”

“No, I ain’t, but that don’t mean I’m not gonna rip that bastard’s face off if he ever shows it in camp again,” he growls. There’s a small voice in the back of his head telling him that he’s starting an argument with a sick woman. He needs to get his emotions in check before he makes her devote too much energy in something stupid.

“Whaddya mean _‘if’_ , Arthur? He has to be out there!” Abigail starts to push herself up, her breath coming short.

“It don’t matter, far as I can tell, he don’t want to be found, Abigail,” Arthur’s hands come forward to try and get her to rest, but he can’t stop the anger from flaring, “I don’t understand what you see in that greasy little dumbass. He obviously don’t love you—”

“You just don’t understand him, Arthur—”

“In this case, I don’t _need_ to!” He’s suddenly standing, the chair falling behind him with a thud. The smoke swirls around him like a storm, “Look at where you are, Abby,” he gestures to the incense burners, to the bowls full of pennyroyal spewing smoke, and the dark inside of her tent, “Look at yourself for Christ’s sake! You almost _died_ because of him.” His voice is low, dangerous.

Abigail's breathing comes in sharp, shaky, trying to control the rage he can clearly see dancing in her eyes. Her jaw tenses before opening it. Arthur prepares for the screaming, but all that comes out of her mouth is a rough cough. Then another. And another.

She starts having a fit, coils into herself as she hunches over to cover her mouth. The anger in Arthur dies and he's suddenly on the cot beside her, rubbing her back in an attempt to soothe her. It lasts for a while, Abigail barely getting any breath between each cough. She sounds like she’s suffocating and Arthur feels powerless against it.

When she finally calms, her whole body relaxes, slacks into exhaustion. She sits back and Arthur mutters a curse, leaning over to reach for the water pail next to the bed and grabs a washcloth. He dabs away at the blood and ash around her mouth, trying not to smear it. Abigail’s frail panting brushes against his knuckles.

“N-never took you for a nurse… Mr. Morgan,” she manages to say, voice sounding like gravel grinding under hooves. Blue eyes look at him through droopy lids. Arthur notices the clumps of burned, yellow petals in her hands and cleans them too. She barely moves.

He rinses the cloth out before sitting back up. She’s still looking at him, breathing deeply. He finds the rage inside him gone. Replaced by exhaustion and sorrow.

“Abigail—”

“I know Arthur… He’s gone,” she clears her throat, eyes becoming glossy, “We— We forced him into it. Not surprised that it didn’t work.”

“You were with child and coughin’ up flowers. He liked you enough. Seemed the better option than stuffin’ you in a tent with pennyroyal and hopin’ the baby would make it.” Arthur tries to reason, “He needed to take responsibility anyway. Grow the fuck up.”

“So do I,” Abigail retorts, looking towards the top of the tent, “Should be old enough to know better.”

At first, Arthur thinks she means the baby, but he knows for a fact that she was always careful with the other men, just not Marston. And keeping Jack was her choice, after all, pennyroyal had other uses than getting rid of petal disease.

He then realizes that what she’s talking about is far more sentimental, “You can’t control that.” Arthur says quietly. He suddenly can’t stand the smell of spearmint.

Abigail looks at him then, “You sound like you’ve got experience in this.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that, just glowers at the tent’s canvas walls. Lets the silence between them grow and grow. He finds though, that it’s not uncomfortable. They share the space on the little cot for a while longer, letting the smoke surround them like a dream.

He leaves when Hosea returns. The man raises a brow at how Arthur sits on the cot, body pressed close to Abigail’s but doesn’t say anything. He picks up the chair though, managing to make Arthur feel guilty just from the simple action.

When he walks outside, the sun is high above him. The air smells fresh, clean. He takes a deep breath and finds the smell of nature far more pleasurable than smokey spearmint.


	3. Chapter 2: Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been doing a lot better and you know it," and Arthur has to admit she's right about that. She hasn't been coughing up flowers or ash for a few days now. Her walking at all is a bit of a miracle in of itself. It's a good sign that she'll recover, but still…
> 
> "Still don't mean you should push yourself," he tells her. Abigail rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less world building, more plot, and more arguing. I'm... not too happy with this chapter, but it was needed in order to set a few things up. I'm also thinking of changing the title of the series, if anyone has good suggestions, feel free to chip in. 
> 
> Also I won't be able to work on this until like June, due to school and moving apartments, so updates will be slow for a while. 
> 
> Again, no-beta, only grammarly!

The girl that Tilly brings in is named Delilah. Which is a fitting name, Arthur thinks as she pulls her red hair back and gently holds little Jack in her arms, cooing at him with kindness in her eyes.

 

The woman is a little more well off than Arthur is comfortable with, not as refined as Molly per say, but Delilah looks as though she’s dressed to go to church everyday (well, in this case, more like a funeral, seeing as how her baby boy died of fever nit two months ago). Like how Mary would dress.

 

He shakes his head, that was a long time ago. He needs to stop thinking of past regrets. Of how Mary's warm hands held his and how he was mesmerized by how dwarfed they looked. Of how she'd speak to him firmly, not intimidated by his brutish, juvenile acts. Of how her eyes looked and how her mouth tilted up when she said she loved him.

 

Of pretty bluebells speckled in blood.

 

A cough jars him from his daydreaming, and a quick inspection reveals that Abigail is making her rounds.

 

Arthur sighs. Abigail is known to be stubborn, probably more than most folks would tolerate, however, Arthur could be just as persistent. He caught her a few times already trying to do things she weren't supposed to be doing. More often than not, the two had started nipping at each other like alley cats. But there's a part of him that knew if he didn't at least try, Abigail would go and just get herself hurt all over again. Still doesn't mean he likes fighting with her.

 

Picking himself up, he makes his way over to the woman as she hobbles her way across camp.

 

"Abigail," he greets, saddling up beside her. He can still smell wafts of spearmint clinging to her.

 

She shoots him a half-hearted glare, "I'm fine, Arthur," she says as a way of greeting.

 

"It's only been a week since you woke up," he replies, "I know Hosea said exercise is important and all that, but you're already breakin' a sweat and you've barely left your tent." Abigail rewards his keen eye with another glare, this one more potent. Arthur can see a flush slowly growing on her cheeks, though that might be because she's still so pale. Whether it’s from overworking herself or embarrassment at being caught, he can’t really tell.

 

"I've been doing a lot better and you know it," and Arthur has to admit she's right about that. She hasn't been coughing up flowers or ash for a few days now. Her walking at all is a bit of a miracle in of itself. It's a good sign that she'll recover, but still…

 

"Still don't mean you should push yourself," he tells her. Abigail rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless.

 

"I'm just headin' to Strauss' tent. No need to worry."

 

Arthur pauses. A stutter goes through his thoughts, giving her a small frown. Then, "What you need from his tent?" He asks, trying to keep his tone casual, but inside he’s starting to worry about her causing more trouble.

 

"It's nothin' important. I just wanna check the log books real quick," she replied, gaze forward, away from Arthur's. Something about that don't sit right with him.

 

He feels himself frown even more, brows furrow as he watches her continue her little journey. "You can't read, Abigail," he counters.

 

That gets her to stop and turn towards him, her hands on her hips and glare set to kill, "I can read _numbers_ , Arthur," she says like she was affronted by his poor word choice.

 

Arthur scrambles, surprised by her sudden hostility, "That's not— I just don't understand why'd you want to look through the log book. It just seems… strange," he tries to explain carefully, but her eyes narrow even more and he finds himself throwing up his hands in surrender, caught off guard by her defensiveness. He doesn’t understand why she’s suddenly angry with him, and in turn, it just makes him upset. He doesn't want to start another argument with her, yet here he was doing just that. Though, at least he could say he didn't start it this time.

 

"Arthur Morgan—" she starts, voice rising and his frustrations with her rising with it, but an even sharper sound cuts between them.

 

"Arthur! My boy!" Dutch hollers from his tent, "Come here for a moment."

 

Arthur looks in Dutch's direction to see the man tilting his head at him. He looks back at Abigail and finds her glaring at the man like he didn't have a right to stop them from making fools of themselves. He snorts and rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. He catches her head snapping towards his, but he turns away before she can say anything. Rather than start what would be another argument with her, Arthur takes the opportunity to leave, resigning himself to the fact that he can't stop her when she's like this, and even if he wanted to, he doesn't have the energy to deal with her.

 

"Do what you want Abigail," he says rather tiredly, "Just stay outta trouble."

 

He hears an indignant huff behind him as he walks away. He knows he'll have to talk to her later, will probably end up in an argument, but part of him is glad that Dutch broke up that fight before it started.

 

Speaking of which, a sigh escapes Arthur's mouth as he catches Dutch's face looking his way. He looks halfway between inpatient and exasperated with the way his arms are crossed and his foot tapping. More like an impatient father than a leader of a gang. Arthur hopes he’s not in for a lecture.

 

When he walks up to him, the man is murmuring something to Javier, who in turn, shakes his head and chuckles. "Whatcha need Dutch?"

 

"Everything alright?" Dutch asks instead.

 

Arthur looks back at Abigail just in time to see her duck into Strauss' tent. He grunts and shakes his head before turning back to Dutch.

 

"At the moment, everything's fine. Just… _you know_ ," he murmurs as though that could explain the complicated mess that is his and Abigail's relationship.

 

Dutch simply nods curtly, before sighing himself. "Come in, Arthur," Dutch says then, before ushering both him and Javier into his tent, keeping them from prying eyes. Once inside, Dutch turns to the both of them, hands splayed over a map on his table, "After Mr. Williamson's recent blunder, and our hasty retreat, the camp is low on provisions. We're gonna need some money if we wanna stay here for a little while longer. I need you and Mr. Escuella here to look into some information for us at the southern part of the county," he points to a section of the map. His finger points to an area directly south of camp. It looks to be a little town, but Arthur can't quite make out the name scribbled there.

 

“Why so far?” Arthur asks, noting the distance almost immediately.

 

“Mrs.Delilah thinks we're just a group of farmers and ranchers traveling westward towards a new home. She don’t need to know what we actually do.” Dutch explains.

 

“It also wouldn’t look good if all her neighbors discovered things missing but _her_ belongings remained untouched,” Javier chimes in.

 

Arthur nods and grunts, “Fair ‘nough.”

 

“Good. Now I need you to meet with a fence who knows the area. I’ve already sent word to him about you boys coming. He’ll more than likely know of some good places to hit. Mr. Escuella will accompany you as Davy and Mac are keepin’ an eye on Bill,” Dutch says with slight exasperation, “And I think Javier wanted some practice with how to follow up on tips.” he gestures towards Javier, who nods at Arthur with a warm smile.

 

Arthur eyes the map warily, noting that they’ll be heading into trapper territory and therefore deeper into the forest and mountains, “That’s gonna be a long trip.”

 

Dutch takes the map and rolls it up before handing it to Arthur, “Shouldn’t be more than a week at most, I have faith in you boys!” Dutch says with an air of confidence that Arthur can’t quite share.

 

“We’ll head out tomorrow morning,” Javier says before giving Arthur a pat on the shoulder and heading out.

 

As Arthur makes to leave as well, Dutch catches him, “Hold on Arthur. One more word.”

 

He hangs back just as he's told, "Yeah, Dutch?"

 

Dutch gives him a concerned look for a moment, keeping silent like he's planning to make one of his big speeches. It leaves Arthur feeling uneasy. Then, "Are you sure everything's fine between you and Abigail?" Arthur sighs but Dutch continues none the less, "You two seem to want to argue every day now."

 

Arthur shakes his head, feels the frustrations from earlier crawling back under his skin, "No we don't," he lies.

 

"Yes, you do." Dutch affirms, face growing more serious, "Look, son, I understand. She almost died, you were scared, concerned, but you gotta understand that pesterin' her is only going to make her not wanna listen to you even more." Dutch tries to explain, "It might be best to let things be, at least until she's better."

 

Arthur shook his head, "You really think she ain't gonna do somethin' stupid if we stop lookin' after her?"

 

Dutch gives him an un-amused look, "It seems to have worked for everyone else, seeing as she's not having little spats with anyone _but_ you." Arthur doesn't say anything to that, and Dutch sighs again, "Look, Arthur, you ain't her husband so—"

 

Arthur jerks, looking at Dutch with an incredulous face. Dutch pauses before saying, "What? I'm simply saying what everyone is thinking, Arthur."

 

"So, I show some concern for a woman who almost died because the father of her child ran out on her, and suddenly I'm actin' like I'm a doting husband?" Arthur can feel his jaw tensing from how irritated he is.

 

"No, but you houndin' her constantly doesn't really make people think otherwise," Dutch says.

 

Arthur scoffs and turns away, planning to leave the tent, but Dutch calls out to him again.

 

"Abigail ain't your mother, Arthur. She'll get through this."

 

Arthur pauses, feeling his muscles go taut. A sinking feeling hits his stomach and travels through his body like blood spilling through water. He hears his own knuckles crack but doesn't feel them. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, holds it in for a few moments, and slowly lets it out, "I'll be back in about a week." He grunts instead of yelling and throwing punches.

 

He storms out of Dutch's tent before the man can say anything, feeling raw and angry. He spots Javier looking at him from across the camp with a carefully neutral expression like he’s observing an animal. He makes a beeline to him and to Javier's credit he doesn't flinch when he stops just a few feet from him.

 

"You mind headin' out this afternoon instead?" He grunts while pulling out a cigarette. Javier lights a match and offers it to him, face thoughtful for a moment.

 

"We won't be able to cover much ground before we have to set up camp." He says.

 

"If you don't mind, I don't," Arthur replies as he lights his cigarette and takes a big pull from it. It does little to calm his frayed nerves.

 

Javier eyes him for a moment, studying him. Arthur doesn't like it, but it's better than Dutch trying to lecture him by digging up the past he barely understands, so he lets it be.

 

Javier looks away suddenly, as though he's come to a decision, and pulls out his own smokes, "Alright," he says after lighting a second match, "I'll start packing." He throws the used match away and walks back to his tent, smoke trailing behind him.

 

The whole exchange leaves Arthur feeling cautious under all the anger. He wants to leave early just to get away from camp and hopes Javier would leave it be. Now though, Arthur's not so sure he's gonna get any peace from Javier either.

 

He sighs heavily before heading to his own tent to prepare for the week's journey.

 

He spots Delilah looking his way, little Jack in her arms fast asleep. He nods at her and she smiles warmly before going back to gently rocking Jack. He’s not sure why, but it leaves him uneasy.

 

By the time he and Javier leave camp that afternoon, nothing feels right to Arthur.


	4. Chapter 3: Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur had to hand it to Javier. The man left him be for a good three days until he finally brought up the whole situation with Abigail and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter that's more plot than world building... I'll get to the world building next chapter... hopefully.
> 
> Anyway, I used Google translate for some of the Spanish, which is probably wrong. If you spot any mistakes with it, don't be afraid to point it out so I can edit it. Besides that, enjoy this bit between Javier and Arthur!
> 
> No beta, only grammerly!

Arthur had to hand it to Javier. The man left him be for a good three days until he finally brought up the whole situation with Abigail and him.

 

They had set up camp just outside of the little trading post they were supposed to meet the fence in. The dinner they had caught earlier was roasting on the fire when Javier finally said something.

 

"How's Abigail?" It's a strange question, considering that Javier could have found out days ago himself.

 

Arthur says as much, "Now how would I know that? We're about a two days ride from camp." He looks up at the man only to find him stoking the fire. It leaves him feeling rather annoyed like people are either walking on eggshells around him or wanting to get in his business.

 

Javier shrugs, "Figured you know best," he glances up, face as carefully emotionless as it has been for the past few days.

 

Arthur stares at him for a few moments, trying to decipher the meaning in his friend’s words. He sighs, looking down at the fire and feels the scorching heat hit his face, "She's probably just upset over John leaving and causing pedal disease."

 

Javier hums, "It seemed to me like she was more upset with you," he says casually, but Arthur can see the curiosity burning in his eyes and he can’t help rolling his eyes.

 

Arthur scoffs, "You're just as bad as the girls."

 

"Maybe," Javier nods, "Or I could just be concerned for both of you. You're my friends, practically my family. John leaving was one hell of a blow to all of us, but it obviously hit you and Abigail hardest." Dark brown eyes look at Arthur then, as though waiting for some kind of explanation or confirmation.

 

Arthur looks away, slightly embarrassed at being read so easily, especially by someone who’s only been with the gang for about two years. He pokes at the rabbit sitting over the fire to see if it's ready, "I suppose so," he admits.

 

Javier chuckles, "The day after Abigail nearly died, we had to physically restrain you from running off to find him. We were all afraid you were gonna try and murder him if you _did_ find the _idiota_ ,” he says while shaking his head, “Look, I wouldn’t worry too much about Abigail. _Pulmón en flor_ can be devastating but only rarely. Most people who have it fall out of love before it has a chance to really do any damage.” He takes a chunk of rabbit from the spit and quietly chews.

 

“She nearly _died_ , Javi,” Arthur feels like a broken record at this point. How could everyone be so calm about this?

 

“Yes, but we _saved_ her, and she got _better_ ,” Javier makes a point to look directly at him, eyes serious, “People who get close to death like that, they usually stop loving the person that abandoned them.”

 

Arthur looks at Javier for a long time, searching the other’s face. There’s a confidence in those brown eyes that Arthur recognizes. It’s the kind of confidence that only experience can grant and it manifests into facts and knowledge. Arthur can relate to that as well. Quietly, with an even tone and face going soft, Arthur says, “You sound like you know this from experience.”

 

Javier didn’t look away as he licks his lips and says, “Maybe." He takes another bite and chews, leaving them in silence, save for the chirps of crickets and the crackle of the fire. Arthur sighs and looks back into the fire, knowing that Javier isn’t going to elaborate, but soon feels a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Look, Arthur, Abigail will get through this. Estoy seguro de ello. People fall in and out of love all the time. It’s the reason pedal disease is as rare as it is. And people dying from it is even rarer.” Arthur finds sincerity in Javier’s voice, and it calms his nerves just a bit more. Javier leans back onto the log they dragged over and says, “And besides, if Abigail needs some help, we’ll help her… Or at least _one_ of us will.”

 

Arthur looks at him then, brow scrunched at the bold statement. He wanted to say something, but Javier tipped his hat down over his face and started getting comfortable. If Arthur wanted to get more out of him, he’d have to wait. Javier could be a bit unwilling to share from time to time, but the man was loyal and kind when it mattered. So, Arthur drops the matter for another day and gets ready to start his watch.

 

* * *

 

 

The two meet the fence early next morning and travel to Timber Springs, a small, mountain town settled by a crystal clear lake. Samuel, the fence, is a freckle-faced, bright-red haired youth of 23, who’s lived in the town since his childhood. He explains to them during breakfast at the local tavern that Timber Springs is a place for the wealthy to build summer homes and places for their family members that had fallen ill. As the local fence, he often sells silverware and jewelry brought to him by the _“loyal”_ servants that stay on the properties throughout the year to maintain the houses.

 

It’s an easy operation with little interference from the local lawmen. Arthur, of course, still maintains a healthy amount of skepticism. While Samuel explains to them where the wealthy homes are located in his townhouse, Arthur voices as much.

 

“I understand you’re a fence and all, but thieves are thieves after all,” he crosses his arms and leans against the table that holds the map of the area, “They band together, and they don’t like when outsiders interfere in their business. You’ve got a nice little scam goin’ on here, with a lot of people involved. Why bother letting us ransack a few homes and pick them clean?”

 

He catches Javier looking at him out of the corner of his eye, looking a little annoyed for calling bluff and letting distrust be voiced a little too soon, but Arthur ignores him. Instead, he focuses on Samuel’s surprised face.

 

The man soon gives him a smile and says, “You’re very right, Mr. Morgan. Normally we wouldn’t, but this time around it’s mutually beneficial,” he smooths out the map again and points to a cluster of houses nestled in the mountainside, close to the lake, “Some of the newer families that’ve come here aren’t particularly nice to the locals offerin’ to safeguard their possessions throughout the year. We wanted to teach them a lesson, but we ain’t exactly a gang. We’d get ourselves caught long before I could pawn off most of their valuables. We need people such as yourselves to help us… _convince_ them that they should rethink about hirin’ some trusted locals,” Samuel explains.

 

Javier eyes the man before saying, “So we make off with a large one-time payoff, while your people get long term jobs and even more money from selling smaller valuables.”

 

“Exactly,” Samuel grins, “It’s a win-win, far as I can tell.”

 

Arthur is still skeptical, this wouldn’t be the first time a job that was _mutually beneficial_ turned itself into a backstab later. And with Marston gone, they’re down a reliable gun. Still, they needed the money. Badly. They’d have to take the risk for now.

 

“Fair ‘nough. So, where are these houses again?” Arthur says and leans towards the map, not missing the way Samuel grins and nods.

 

* * *

 

 

“I think you’re right to be skeptical, Arthur,” Javier finally says after two days. They’re riding back to camp, going at a brisk pace, “This plan’s too good to be true.”

 

“ _Now_ you’re suspicious,” Arthur scoffs, already well annoyed with the situation, “The whole damn thing seems like a way to set us up. The houses weren’t even guarded. Usually means there’s nothin’ in them.”

 

Javier hums in agreement, “And Samuel was far too eager to go along with all this. Maybe the town’s folk got a little too _codicioso_ — uh... _greedy_ and need a scapegoat,” he pushed Boaz a little closer so he could get Arthur to look at him, “What do you suppose we do?”

 

Arthur sighs, the bad feeling he had before only intensifying with Javier’s own distrust of Samuel, “Not entirely sure. We need the money, so we can’t exactly say no to an opportunity like this, even if it’s a trap. We’ll have to take the risk, but we can mitigate it. We’re close to camp now, we’ll talk to Dutch about it when we get back.” He watches Javier nod and focuses on getting back a little quicker.

 

When midday rolls around, they encounter Bill at his guard post. He gives them a curt nod with a grim face instead of his usual crude greeting. It makes Arthur all the more anxious. By the time they reach camp, there’s an air of unease from everybody, and not because Arthur doesn’t like the situation with Samuel. It’s something resigned, like an inevitability they all expected to happen. It puts Arthur even more on edge.

 

He spots a small group consisting of Tilly, Mary-beth, and Delilah when he dismounts. All of them are huddled around a small table piled with clothes that need some mending. They’re facing Abigail’s tent, and a heavy weight drops in Arthur’s stomach. Javier looks at him with a concerned tilt to his brows and grabs Boudica’s reins from him, while Arthur stalks towards the group.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” he says gruffly, making the trio jump. The three turn their heads towards him, but Arthur catches Tilly looking sad and tired, and Arthur grits his teeth feeling like he already knows.

 

Delilah answers instead, “Ms. Roberts got sick again,” her voice sounds empathetic. Arthur growls in the back of his throat, growing more and more frustrated. He departs the girls with a grunted thanks and heads towards the tent only slightly guilty about his gruff behavior.

 

When he enters, the smell of peppermint and smoke is absent, but the sight of yellow pedals is far too familiar. He glares at the top of Abigail’s head as he watches her in the midst of gathering each flower off the floor, piling them onto a large, red handkerchief.

 

When she looks up at the sound of him entering, her eyes are set in their own glare. She looks awful, hair frayed and skin pale. But behind the anger she has directed Arthur’s way, there’s a stubborn determination in her blue eyes that he doesn’t like one bit.

 

“Arthur,” she says, voice sounding like gravel under a boot, “Welcome back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that are curious, "Pulmón en flor" translates to "Blooming Lung" in Spanish (I hope), and is a reference to “Cowboys Ain’t Easy to Love" by Dormchi, which is a good Morston Hanahaki fic I completely recommend you guys check out!


	5. Chapter 4: Geranium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Abby,” he pleads. He watches her waver, “I ain’t lettin’ you sell yourself like this.”
> 
> Abigail rolls her eyes and scoffs, “I ain’t doin’ that, not anymore,” she tries to shove him aside but his bulk stops her.
> 
> “I ain’t talkin’ bout that,” he says, voice low as he takes her wrist, the one that holds the red handkerchief, and brings it up, “I’m not lettin’ you kill yourself for money, Abby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert author's evil laughter here]

Arthur manages to grab Abigail’s arm as she tries to walk out of the tent. He forces her to turn around and he notices the smattering of dried blood on her lips. The sudden lick of anger that courses through him is so powerful, it nearly blinds him. Making him forget all that he was going to say.

 

Abigail wrenches her arm out of his grasp, “Don’t you dare touch me like that again,” she growls, voice low and dangerous while her eyes narrow like they’re spitting venom at him. She stomps out of the tent, not even waiting for him to say a word. 

 

 _“Abigail!”_ He yells as he chases after her. Arthur doesn’t care that the entire camp can hear him or that the girls are all intently watching their drama unfold, he wants to know what the hell happened, “Come here! What’s going _on?!”_

 

She stops and turns sharply, eyes set to burn him to his core, “I ain’t a dog, Arthur!” She doesn't give him a chance to reply, turning around and going to the horses, “And it ain’t none of your business!”

 

Arthur rushes over to her and grabs her by the shoulders. He can hear Abigail’s dappled-grey shire, Romeo, whiny at them, startled. He lowers his voice, tries not to let the frustration make him growl, “Where are you goin’? It’s almost sundown—”

 

Abigail shrugs him off, “I said it ain’t none of your business!” Her voice is a harsh whisper, on the edge of coughing. She walks up to Romeo, who’s starting to become fidgety, and climbs onto the saddle with enough struggle that Arthur tries again.

 

He takes her hand, the one clutching the red handkerchief, trying to be as gentle as he can to get her attention, “Abby, _please,_ ” he practically hisses, desperate. 

 

She snaps her gaze at him, blue eyes wavering for the briefest of moments. There’s a pause between them in which Arthur thinks that she’ll listen. That she’ll get down from her horse and talk to him. Tell him what’s going on and what she’s doing. But she looks away instead, a sudden cough rips its way through her throat. The fit lasts for only a few moments, but it’s enough that Arthur can hear how wet it is. She looks forward then, face emotionless and Arthur tenses. There’s more blood smeared against her lips.

 

Abigail starts her horse into a trot, ignoring Arthur. He watches as his hand slips from her’s. She’s just about to turn down the path when Arthur curses and finds Bo’.

 

Soon he’s going after her with the calls of Dutch and Bill behind him. Abigail whips her head around and stares at him incredulously as he slows Bo’ down beside her and Romeo.

 

“It’s gettin’ late. I don’t know where you’re goin’, but I ain’t lettin’ you wander around at night,” he says with finality. 

 

Abigail still argues though, “I can handle myself, Arthur,” she tries to speed Romeo up, but shires aren’t exactly the fastest. Bo’ easily catches up.

 

“I’m well aware, Ms. Roberts, but I don’t care,” he hears Abigail scoff, but the drop of her shoulders tells him that she’s given up, for now.

 

The two ride in an uncomfortable silence down the road. The sky turning darker with each passing minute, draping the land in dark shades of blues and oranges. Arthur tries to figure out what to say, to get Abigail to turn around or even acknowledge him in a way that won’t make her bolt. But his mind keeps drawing up blanks as he glances back and forth from the road to her. 

 

Abigail looks close to hitting someone with the way her knuckles grow nearly white against the reins. He figures that his fretting is making her antsy. Good. Maybe it’ll get her to finally talk to him and tell him what’s going on.

 

About a mile down the road, Arthur spots the sign for Clearview, a little town they set up shop near. He looks at it quizzically for a moment, wondering what Abigail wants from here until he remembers the red handkerchief that she’s clutching in her fist. 

 

Abigail finds a post and quickly hitches Romeo to it before stalking her way through town. Arthur quickly does the same and jogs after her. He looks around for a brief moment before tugging her into an alley. She struggles against the grip on her upper arm for a moment before Arthur let's go and blocks her path out.

 

He levels her with what he hopes is a stern glare, but is sure that he can’t hide the concern, “Abby, I need you to tell me what’s going on,” he blocks her from pushing her way out by bringing his arms up to the walls of the alley. 

 

She sends him a glare that could start a storm, he’s sure, “Why do I need to tell you anythin’,” she growls. 

 

“Abby,” he pleads. He watches her waver, “I ain’t lettin’ you sell yourself like this.”

 

Abigail rolls her eyes and scoffs, “I ain’t doin’ _that_ , not anymore,” she tries to shove him aside but his bulk stops her.

 

“I ain’t talkin’ bout _that_ ,” he says, voice low as he takes her wrist, the one that holds the red handkerchief, and brings it up, “I’m not lettin’ you kill yourself for money, Abby.”

 

Abigail tenses but doesn’t look at him, avoiding his gaze like a child being scolded, “It’s good money, Arthur.”

 

“No amount is worth _dyin’_ over,” he says, the sound of his voice is guttural within the small echo of the alleyway.

 

Her eyes snap towards him, nearly pleading but too proud not to try and hide it, “We _need_ the money.”  

 

“We can get it another way—”

 

 _“No!”_ Abigail raises her voice and Arthur quickly looks behind him to make sure no one’s noticed, “This,” she says, shaking her hand that Arthur still has a grip on, “This is easy money compared to what ya’ll are doin’. I can’t just sit there, feelin’ sorry for myself anymore, Arthur.” Her whole body is tense with the confession. She looks like she might even start crying, “Let this cursed love be worth _somethin’_ ,” she says the last bit through clenched teeth. 

 

Arthur is taken aback by the small outburst, not because it comes from Abigail —he’s seen her have worse breaking points— but because of the emotion behind it. Desperation is a rare, ugly feeling. One that can swallow someone whole so quickly that it’s frightening. 

 

He stares at her, not knowing what to say. At his silence, Abigail huffs, exhausted. Much like Hosea would do when Arthur or John did something incredibly stupid and needed help getting out of the mess they made. 

 

She sets her sight to the main road and easily pushes Arthur’s stunned form out of her way. He snaps his gaze up long enough to catch her leaving his sight and quickly chases after her. He finds her entering a small building, not even bothering holding the door open for him as he nearly runs into it. When he opens it himself, the ringing of the little bell above him makes his teeth grit.

 

Abigail is already at the counter, talking to what appears to be a jewelry or watchmaker. The old man eyes her critically down the beak of his nose, judging Abigail’s state already. The anger that curdles in Arthur’s belly makes his hands clench until his nails bite so deep into his palm, he’s sure they’re bleeding a little. 

 

“I would be inclined to believe you miss,” The shopkeep sneers at the red handkerchief full of bloody daffodil petals, “But you know the rarity of such a disease. Fakes come to me far more often than legitimate ones. If your loved one is truly dying of such a disease, then I would imagine you’d prefer to get them _help._ ” His tone is judgmental.

 

Abigail opens her mouth, eyes set in a seething glare, but the sound that comes out is guttural. As though on some cue, like that of a tragic stage play, Abigail starts coughing. It’s loud, grating against Arthur’s ears. He rushes to her side, reaches for the red handkerchief, not caring how the shopkeeper clicks his tongue as the petals fall behind the counter.

 

The coughing lasts for a few minutes. Arthur feeling helpless as he rubs circles on her back and begins to smell the coppery stench of blood. Suddenly she starts gagging. Arthur shoots the shopkeeper a wide-eyed glare, “Get her a somethin’!”

 

The alarmed shopkeeper looks incredulously at him, “Get her _what?!”_

 

Arthur’s about to start hollering and making threats when Abigail suddenly stops and makes one last loud cough. It so sharp and sudden, it sounds like it could shatter glass if she was close to a window. Arthur and the shopkeeper look down in time to see a fully bloomed flower slide out of Abigail’s blood covered mouth and into her hand. 

 

They stare at her as she pants and trembles. When she looks up, Arthur sees how much of a mess she is. Blood smeared across her chin and lips, and her teeth are stained red. Her hair frays out of her bun and down her sweat-slicked forehead. Her eyes are bloodshot and emitting so much hatred that Arthur thinks she might actually kill a man with her bare hands if he says the wrong thing.

 

“Does this look _fake_ to you,” her voice sounds like sandpaper scraping against glass, deep and piercing. She smacks the blood covered flower onto the countertop. Little droplets splatter against the wood. The shopkeeper stares wide-eyed at it before glancing back up with a deep frown.

 

“Seven-hundred,” he says, voice far steadier than Arthur thought it would be. 

 

“Twelve-hundred…” Abigail huffs, voice still strained and gravel like. Arthur looks at her incredulously. 

 

He snaps his gaze back to the shopkeeper as the man grunts in annoyance, “ _Fine_ , a thousand, and I’ll throw in a bracelet watch for the full bloom.”

 

“Deal,” Abigail says before she starts coughing again. Arthur watches in abject horror as the man reaches behind his counter and procures the bills necessary. Abigail, still coughing, grabs the money and shoves it into her pocket. 

 

“Abby—” Arthur starts, but the shopkeeper pulls out a box lined with velvet. A selection of bracelet watches, all with intricate designs in gold and silver, pillowed on top. Abigail clears her throat a best she can before looking at them. She then points towards a gold one, with little pearls decorating the surface and an ivory face for the watch. The shopkeeper places the watch in a smaller box filled with tissue and hands it to Abigail without a word. 

 

She stands up straighter, breathing against the handkerchief, and walks her way out of the shop, catching herself on the door. Arthur goes to help steady her, but she swats him away with another rough cough. He stands there as the bell rings sharply against his ears. 

 

“Sir,” he turns towards the shopkeeper. The man has already gathered a pile of yellow petals on the counter. He examines one with a critical eye and Arthur wants nothing more than to punch him in his beak nose, “That is a woman _quite_ scorned. Willing to do anything in her power to prove something. I suggest you look after her.” He sends a pointed look at Arthur. 

 

Arthur can feel his jaw tense so tightly, he’s surprised that he hasn’t broken his teeth. He growls and leaves the shop, making sure to slam the door on his way out, not caring if he broke the glass. His whole body feels on fire with how angry he is. The frustration in himself for not stopping this madness makes him want to start a fight just to cool down. 

 

He can feel his shoulders shaking with each deep inhale as he tries to calm himself, tries to make sense of what just happened. But it doesn’t last long when he hears Abigail saying, “Come on.”

 

He looks up to find her already atop Romeo, Bo’ trailing beside him as Abigail holds her reins, “I’d like to get back before it gets too dark,” Abigail says. She still looks like a mess, but the blood from her mouth is at least gone.

 

Arthur glares at her, but she just hands him the reins. When he grabs them and gets on Bo’ he hears the sound of a match. He looks over to find Abigail lighting a cigarette as she starts Romeo into a trot. He stares incredulously for a few moments before he spurs Boudica forward, catching up to her. 

 

He opens his mouth to say something, probably scathing and angry when he catches the scent of peppermint. He gives her a questioning glare.

 

“They’re pennyroyal cigarettes. Hosea gave them to me,” she answers as she blows out smoke, “I know you’re concerned about my health, ‘bout me dying for some quick cash and to make rich people feel fashionable, but that ain’t happening.” 

 

Arthur wants to desperately reach over and get her to stop and listen, “Abigail,” voice low and exhausted.

 

“I’m never gonna stop lovin’ him, Arthur. I’ve _accepted_ that.” The statement makes him shake with the shock of it. He opens his mouth to argue but she continues regardless, “I know John leavin’ nearly killed me. Turns out my heart just don’t care, Arthur. I’ll keep gettin’ sick and nearly dying over and over again ‘til one day it finally kills me. But I’m not gonna let it dictate my life, not gonna let it stop me from providing for Jack,” She looks forward down the road and Arthur is struck breathless by the determined beauty he finds there, despite the state of her, “And I’m not gonna let you stop me either.”

 

She takes another drag from her cigarette and spurs Romeo further forward, letting Arthur stew over the declaration. He watches her, feeling helpless and raw with emotions he can’t name or comprehend. The exhaustion of his body and mind begin to get to him, but he can’t stop. He needs to do something, anything to get Abigail to see reason.

 

Suddenly, like the rapids of a seemingly calm river, he thinks about what Javier said to him earlier this week. 

 

If Abigail needs help, _someone_ will help her. 

 

And Arthur knows exactly _who_ can do that.

 

He narrows his eyes, determined, and spurs Bo’ forward with a desperate feeling in his heart that he won’t name, but is far too familiar with.

 

 

* * *

 

  


Gregory Miller never expected in the thirty years he ran his little general store that he would ever get a customer like this.

 

The man looks ragged, smells like he hasn’t had a good bath in God knows how long, and is currently glaring at him like Gregory killed his dog. 

 

The pile of petals on his counter are bloodstained. An unusual color, red and yellow stems poking out of pink buds. Must be from a flower that only grows on the coast, he’s sure. The name escapes him, however. 

 

Gregory knows what they are. He could make a decent amount of money if he sells them off to a jewelry maker in Passaic county even if they were fakes. Heard they have a cholera problem there, and the funeral business is booming. 

 

He looks up at the man and clears his throat, “I can offer five-hundred for the lot.”

 

The man grunts, “Throw in a bottle of bourbon and a tonic and you got yourself a deal.” The man’s voice is pitched low, sounding like a rusty knife being sharpened. Though Gregory suspects that his voice has always sounded like that, and not just when he got petal disease. 

 

“Ya sure you don’t want some soap,” he jokes and gets a seething glare from dark brown eyes. He throws his hands up in surrender and clears his throat again.

 

He nods curtly and grabs the money and supplies. The man snatches them out of Gregory’s hands and quickly starts to exit the store. Gregory looks at the pile of flowers with a sense of guilt but knows that he could sell the petals for three times their worth. And he needs the money. 

 

“If it’s worth anything to you, mister, I’m real sorry,” he says suddenly, just as the man pushes the door open. 

 

The man stands stalk still, rigid as a tree. Gregory has half a mind to duck behind the counter before the man scoffs, “Yeah, I’m _sure_ you are.” Then he leaves. 

 

Gregory blinks after him and scoops up the petals as delicately as he can. He thinks about the ragged man as he puts the petals into an envelope for safekeeping. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “Poor bastard.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so for those confused and wondering: _Memento mori_ had a booming business during the Victorian era. There was even an industry around making jewelry and other small trinkets from either dead relative's teeth, hair, ash, ect, or from a dead relative's personal belongings. I'd imagine that during that era the idea of Hanahaki Disease would have _utterly fascinated_ the Victorians, almost to the point of overly romanticizing the disease. And also pay out a ton of money for the "real deal".  
> The idea here is that Abigail is willing to constantly get sick so she can sell the petals so rich people can feel fashionable during mourning periods. :)
> 
> Also I'd like to thank the Red Dead Fandom discord for helping me come up with the name for Abigail's horse. The idea is that the horse was named by all the girls of the gang because they were planning on sharing him, but the shire took a liking to Abigail the most. So Romeo just ended up becoming "Abigail's horse" . lol  
> If you're interested in joining, here's a link => https://discord.gg/SgxYecU
> 
> P.S. Wrist watches were a thing back then and had been for centuries. They were just mostly called "Bracelet Watches" and were worn exclusively by women up until WW1.


End file.
